#spin cylinder

[winterandwords]

✍🏼 OC interview tag

Thanks to @starbuds-and-rosedust for the tag!

📝 Answer the questions provided from your own OC's perspective. Then create new questions for those tagged to continue the game.

Answering for Brett from November Breaks and Spin Cylinder...

What’s your favorite constellation?

Orion. And not because it's the only one I can reliably recognise. (OK, maybe it is because of that)

Who are you named after/what is the story of your name?

I told the writer my name and she knows better than to argue with the people who show up in her head and yell their stories at her.

What place do you hold dear to your heart but never want to visit again?

The roof of my old office. Because of the memories with Noah, not because of the job. The job can get fucked. I'm never going anywhere near Allegra Technologies again unless I'm burning it down.

Tagging @aether-wasteland-s, @afoolandathief, @ahordeofwasps and @anthros-vanitas-archive if you'd like to do it, with an open tag for anyone else who wants to join in 💙

The questions for your character are... What's your earliest memory? What memory always makes you smile? If you could remove any memory from you mind forever, what would it be?

Reblogs, replies etc on my tag posts are always welcome, but if you're doing this tag yourself, please make your own post instead of using mine to start a reblog chain.

[wastrelwoods]

i cannot believe the hannibal pilot script scene is going around IN FULL and everyone is zeroing in on the fact that hannibal is smoking and not acknowledging at ALL the idea of him doing so whilst in full pink panther bullshit disguise with a prosthetic nose and a fake beard. i'm sympathetic to the notion of mads mikkelsen with a cigarette in his mouth being nice to look at but i CANNOT imagine that outweighing the What The Fuck Of It All in context

[winterandwords]

✍🏼 Who's in their wallet? tag

Thanks to @gaslightwestern for the tag! This one is new to me and I love it already.

📝 Pick an OC and think - if they were to carry a picture of someone in their wallet, who would this person be?

I'm answering for Noah from November Breaks and Spin Cylinder...

Noah's wallet - which is black leather, understated, and stupidly expensive (of course) - wouldn't have ANY pictures in it. There are just cards and cash. That's it. Nothing as sentimental as a picture. Except for that one, tucked in right at the back, of Brett (who has no idea the photo even exists) asleep on the couch.

Tagging @starbuds-and-rosedust, @sunset-a-story, @talesfromaurea and @talesofsorrowandofruin if you'd like to do it, with an open tag for anyone else who wants to join in 💙

Reblogs, replies etc on my tag posts are always welcome, but if you're doing this tag yourself, please make your own post instead of using mine to start a reblog chain.

[turbo-virgins]

pro tip if you buy a new washing machine make sure you take the shipping bolts off of it because my partner and I didn’t and I thought it was going to fucking kill us

[godzexperiment]

It was one of the spaces he actually occupied frequently; an complicated set of walls that he just stripped down to its bare bones emotionally most days. Loud music blaring, echoing around while he twirled around with his eyes closed. Ever so light hopping on, off the pews and enjoying himself. And song after song of it- until he was spinning ever so fast, with perfect balance on the back edge of the pew bench. Until the last song was hitting its final chords. With which he ran along its length- using one foot to push himself off into the air. That moment before gravity was able to grip tight. While he just sort of drifted; even with his wings not present. Before his boots impacted soundlessly, an little last spin on the tip of them for the final seconds of instrumental. Just standing there for an moment with his eyes closed. Then the little run, slight gliding despite the heavy traction of his boots with an little help of his wings to fill the dead air with some more music.

[elytrafemme]

zombiekittiez, starsinew, and starrylitme were legit the trinity of insanely good komahina writers i think about constantly who i also never formed a personal relationship with so i'm neither biased nor resentful

[winterandwords]

@eyes-talks-ocs suggested I have a go at this!

Spin Cylinder

Two guys with too much money and not a functioning conscience between them leave behind a life of crime for a new life of slightly different and more interesting crime.

Name From Nowhere

Ex-con who processes her trauma in the worst possible way seeks revenge on her abusive family with the help of other people who also process their trauma in the worst possible way.

Hey writeblr! Here's a challenge: can you summarize what you're writing in one sentence?

[ookaookaooka]

am i dumb for not realizing that jet engines aren't like giant fans until literally this my twenty-ninth year. i thought they needed jet fuel because. they're so big and move so fast 🤦

[carnalcrows]

russian roulette

genre: smut

pairing: salesman x male!reader

CW: unprotected sex, cum as lube, gunplay, slight-dubcon, blowjobs (reader receiving), anal, creampie, breeding, the salesman is a warning of his own, the term [y/n] is not used

word count: 1.6k

The dim light of the underground room cast long, jagged shadows across the walls. The metallic scent of oil and gunpowder clung to the air, mingling with the faint coppery tang of fear. You sat tied to a chair, your wrists bound tightly behind your back. The sharp edges of the ropes bite into your skin each time you so much as shifted.

Across from you, the Salesman leaned casually against the table, his signature smirk firmly in place. He toyed with the revolver in his hand, spinning the cylinder with a flick of his wrist. His eyes—dark, calculating, and endlessly amused—never left you.

“You know,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk, “most people wouldn’t agree to this game. It’s dangerous. Final. But then again...” He stepped closer, the gun dangling loosely from his fingers. “You’re not like most people, are you?”

“Guess I just enjoy living on the edge,” you shot back, refusing to let the tremor in your voice betray you.

He chuckled, a low sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh, you’re more than just that. You’re reckless. Stubborn. And,” he tilted his head, his smirk deepening, “you’re very, very intriguing.”

The gun clicked as he opened the cylinder, slipping a single bullet into one of the chambers. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and deliberate. He snapped it shut with a flourish, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Let’s see how lucky you are today,” he murmured, stepping into your personal space.

You tensed as he crouched in front of you, the revolver resting loosely in his grip. His free hand reached out, brushing against your jaw to tilt your face upward. The touch was deceptively gentle, his thumb lingering for just a moment too long.

“Do you always get this close to people you’re threatening?” you asked, your voice laced with defiance.

“Only the ones worth the effort.” His smirk widened, but his eyes were sharp, dissecting you as though trying to unravel the very core of who you were.

He straightened, spinning the cylinder once more before pressing the cold barrel of the revolver against your temple. The pressure was light, almost playful, but the weight of what it symbolized made your heart pound.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, leaning down so that his lips were just inches from your ear. “Not so fearless now?”

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Maybe I just don’t feel like giving you the satisfaction.”

His laugh was quiet, almost a hum. “Oh, you’ve already done that.” He pulled back slightly, shifting the revolver to your lips. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip as he tilted your head back further, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Open.”

The command sent a wave of heat through you, not from fear, but from something darker, more visceral. You parted your lips, the cold metal slipping inside, heavy against your tongue. The intimate nature of the act was suffocating, his hand steady as he watched you, unblinking.

“There it is,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That spark. That fire. You don’t want to lose, do you?” Click. The gun doesn’t go off.

You glared at him, your breath shallow around the barrel. His smirk softened into something more unreadable as he removed the gun, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw once more.

“No,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “You’re not afraid of death. You’re afraid of me.”

You clenched your fists behind your back, the ropes biting into your skin. “What do you want from me?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lowered the revolver and crouched again, his face level with yours.

“Maybe I just like watching you squirm,” he said, though the words carried a weight that contradicted his playful tone. His hand came up to your face again, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Or maybe... I just like you.”

The confession, if it could be called that, hung in the air between you, heavy and charged. He stood abruptly, spinning the revolver one last time before slipping it into the holster at his hip.

“Lucky for you,” he said, his smirk returning. But instead of stepping away, he lingered, his sharp gaze raking over you like a predator sizing up its prey.

The tension in the room thickened, the charged atmosphere pressing against your skin. You wanted to say something—maybe challenge him, maybe break the silence—but the words caught in your throat when he leaned down again, his gloved hand brushing against your cheek.

“You look like you have something to say,” he murmured, his tone low and laced with amusement.

“I was just wondering,” you began, voice steady despite the heat building between you, “if this is what you consider being generous.”

He chuckled, a dark, velvety sound that made your pulse spike. “Oh, you think I’m playing rough now?” His fingers trailed from your cheek to your jaw, the leather cool against your skin. “You don’t even know half of it.”

You swallowed hard, meeting his eyes even as your breath quickened. “Then why don’t you show me?”

The smirk on his lips faltered, replaced by something deeper, darker. For a moment, the mask of playful arrogance slipped, and you glimpsed the man beneath—the one who thrived on control, who relished in watching others unravel.

His hand moved lower, the tips of his fingers brushing against your neck. He tilted your head back, exposing your throat as his thumb pressed lightly against your pulse. “You’re bold,” he murmured, his voice a whisper against the shell of your ear. “I like that.”

His proximity was intoxicating, the scent of leather and faint cologne filling your senses. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as he leaned in closer. His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, his grip firm but not painful.

“I could make you beg,” he said, his words a dangerous promise. “But I think I’d enjoy hearing you defy me more.”

You met his gaze, the challenge clear in your eyes. “Maybe you should try.”

For a moment, the world held its breath. His smirk returned, slow and deliberate, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but enough to make your heart race. His voice dropped to a near-growl.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, his breath warm against your skin.

“Good thing I like danger,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper.

His laugh was low and dark, sending a shiver down your spine. “Then let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

He hooks his finger through the hem of your pants and slides it down slowly, along with your boxers. Your cock hardens with the sudden rush of cool air. He stares at it momentarily, before kneeling down to – put it in his mouth?

That was not what you had expected, but it wasn't like you were complaining. He slowly licked a stripe from the base to the hand, while his other hand brought out his gun from the holster at his hip. 

“S-stop teasing,” you whimpered, and before you could say another word, he had taken your cock till the hilt. You let out a strangled moan, head falling back.

He slowly bobbed his head on your length, while his other hand had placed the gun on the floor and was now trying to free his own cock from the constraint of his pants.

Soon enough, you were at your climax, but he pulled off, and finished with his hands. You came with a groan, all over the man’s face. He seemed to be enjoying it though.

As your breathing slows down, he lifts your legs up (while you are still tied to the chair). Before you can say anything, a cold object presses to the rim of your ass. When you look down, you realize that its the revolver.

Click

It doesn’t go off.

“Today might just be your lucky day,” the salesman chuckles, before slowly inserting the tip of the revolver into your ass before you could protest, using your own release as lube. The feeling on the cold revolver has you seeing stars, it’s a perfect mix of pleasure and pain.

As the gun keeps going in and out of you, the salesman utters what you think to be a mix of praise and degradation. 

“Such a pretty little whore for me, that’s it… Do you get off to this? Having a gun up your ass?” Before you could respond, he gets up, takes the gun out and slides his cock in its place. He doesn’t even wait for a moment, and takes you all the way to the hilt.

He rocks in and out of you slowly, pressing the gun to your temple. “Such a good boy f’me,” he says as he drags the gun down to your neck.

One particular hard thrust hits your sweet spot, sending your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Seeing this, he loses all form of self control, and stashes the gun, taking both of his hands to you hips before fucking into you like a wild animal.

“Fuck.. I’m gonna–,” he interrupts himself when he releases into you with a loud groan, throwing his head back. You too reach your second climax, painting both your stomachs pearly white.

After a few minutes, the man pulls out, cleans himself up takes his brief case and leaves with you still tied to the chair.

“Are you kidding me–”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my work as I spend time and and I take genuine effort to do them.

[winterandwords]

I'm editing Spin Cylinder at the moment and getting a huge kick out of water as a motif. Rain, showers, the sea, bottles of water, cleansing, drowning, absolution.

If you see this, tell me something about your own WIP that makes you smile.

[catchastarorten]

—Pause the game.

Pairing: the salesman/recruiter x wife!fem!reader

Summary: your husband had some ‘work’ to take care of with the two people that had been trailing after him all day, but when your call came in, and when he found out that you felt sick, you became much more important than whatever he had going on.

Warnings: mainly fluff, mentions of Woo-seok and Jeong-rae following snd spying on him, some parts of the Russian roulette game, he’s soft for you, he misses you, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1.4k

The day had been long, even by his standards. A hundred lottery scratchers, a hundred loaves of bread, the park, the homeless. He had been up to a little ‘social experiment’. Even then, he caught onto the two men who had been trailing behind him since the subway station.

He wasn’t stupid. Someone was after him, and these two lackeys were clearly here to track him down. His best guess? Seong Gi-hun.

Woo-seok and Jeong-rae had been following him like shadows—clumsy ones, attempting to blend in with the surroundings every time he stopped, as if they expected him to turn around and strike at any moment. And eventually, he did.

He had let them tail him, then to his surprise, they made the first move down an alleyway to avoid losing him. By the time they realized they had made a mistake, it was too late. He had taken them down quickly, efficiently, the way he always handled these things. No emotions, no hesitation.

Jeong-rae had gone down first, crumpled to the ground. Woo-seok tried to fight back with the poor attempt of using a small knife, but a sharp blow of the suitcase to his head had knocked him out.

Now, they were sitting across from each other, bound to chairs, tied up with ropes, their mouths gagged, their muffled groans filling the dimly lit room. They couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg—just incoherent muffled noises as they squirmed like trapped animals.

He slowly circled the two men, then stopped to place a hand on each of their shoulders, eyes filled with amusement at their looks of terror.

“We're going to play a game now... Rock, Paper, Scissors, Minus One. I trust you know the rules.” his gaze flickered from Jeong-rae to Woo-seok, a smile forming on his lips.

“You form a shape with each hand, then take one away. The game is decided by the remaining hands. Of course, there’s a penalty for the loser.” he picked up the nearby revolver and inspected it, then pressed the barrel to his temple. “Russian Roulette.”

Their muffled protests grew louder, their bodies twisting against the ropes in a futile attempt to escape. The two men were shaking, their breaths heavy as he leaned closer, his finger on the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

His smirk widened as he backed away slowly.

“Alright. Now, let’s play. On my count.”

But then, as he was getting ready to spin the cylinder of the revolver, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

His brows furrowed, the interruption pulling him out of the carefully constructed moment. He pulled the phone out, and the sight of your name on the screen made him pause.

He froze for a moment, staring at the screen as his heart softened. It wasn’t like you to call him in the middle of the day. You knew he was busy—always busy. The ‘work’ he pretended to do required him to keep odd hours, to vanish without explanation, and you never questioned it. You trusted him. And he loved you for that trust, even if he didn’t deserve it.

His thumb hovering over the answer button before taking a deep breath and sliding his mask of indifference back into place. But when he answered, his voice betrayed him. It was warm, gentle—a tone he reserved only for you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, the edge it had carried a moment ago completely gone. He shot the two men a warning look, his eyes narrowing as if daring them to make a sound.

Turning away from them, his tone dropped into something almost tender. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Your voice came through the line, quiet and tinged with vulnerability. “I… I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… I’m not feeling well.”

He could hear the catch in your throat, the faint rasp. “Are you sick?” he asked, straightening.

There was a pause on your end, then a soft sniffle that nearly broke his heart. “Yeah. Just a cold, I think. My head hurts, and I’m all stuffed up.”

He closed his eyes, letting out a slow, steadying breath as guilt twisted in his chest. You sounded miserable, and he hated that he wasn’t there to take care of you. Hated that he was here, in this cold room, when he should’ve been home with you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I know you’re busy. I just… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, his voice gentle but firm. “You can call me anytime, okay? I mean it. Anytime.”

There was a pause, and then he heard another sniffle on the other end. It made his chest clench. “Where are you?” you asked. “Are you coming home soon?”

He glanced down at Woo-seok and Jeong-rae, their wide, panicked eyes watching him like trapped prey. The revolver gleamed on the table beside him, a stark reminder of the life he led when he wasn’t with you.

For the first time all day, he felt a pang of guilt—not for them, but for you. For the life he kept hidden from you. You had no idea what he did, the darkness he waded through every day. And he wanted to keep it that way. You were his light, his one connection to something pure and good in a world full of shadows.

“Soon,” he promised, his voice softening even further. “I’ll be home soon."

You didn’t reply right away, but he could picture you nodding, your lips pressed into that small, tired smile you always gave him when you were sick. He could see you in his mind—wrapped in a blanket, your hair messy, your cheeks flushed from the fever.

“There’s soup in the fridge,” he added gently. “I made it this morning. Heat some up, okay? And the heating pad’s in the bottom drawer. You’ll feel better if you use it.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice tired.

“I love you,” he said, the word coming out more vulnerable than he intended.

“I love you too,” you replied, and he could hear the faint smile in your voice despite the cold.

His chest tightened at the sound of those words. He glanced away from the two men on the floor, his jaw clenching as he fought the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to rise. “Now go rest, my love. I’ll be home soon.” his voice was thick with sincerity.

When the call ended, the room was silent. He stared down at the phone in his hand, his mind still on you.

For a moment, he let himself imagine walking through the door of your shared apartment, dropping his keys on the counter, and finding you curled up on the couch. He’d press a kiss to your forehead, make sure you were warm, and hold you until you fell asleep. That was all he wanted.

But instead, he was stuck here.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to Woo-seok and Jeong-rae. His expression hardened once more. “Well,” he said. “Where were we?”

He reached for the revolver, spinning the cylinder with a practiced flick of his wrist. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “Loser gets to test their luck with this. Simple, right?”

He crouched down in front of them, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring their terror.

They shook their heads frantically, their breathing heavy, protests muffled by the gag. He sighed, standing up and running a hand through his hair. “You know,” he said, his voice almost casual. “I’d love to stay and play, but I’ve got someone waiting for me at home. So let’s not drag this out.”

Their muffled protests grew louder, but he didn’t care. This was his world. His game.

And when it was over, he’d go home to you. To the warmth of your love, the softness of your touch.

You didn’t know what he was. What he did. And he intended to keep it that way.

Because as long as you were safe, as long as you loved him, he could pretend—for just a little while—that he was someone worth loving.

[fear-is-truth]

THE ODDS

— THE RECRUITER x gn!reader

warnings : 18+. dead dove do not eat. gunplay. violence. death. dubcon. oral sex (m!receiving) a/n : english is not my first language

the room smells like damp concrete and despair, all condensed in roughly one hundred square feet. you’re on your knees, beside you, the girl—just as nameless to you as you probably are to her—shudders uncontrollably. her breaths are shallow and uneven, and her face is streaked with tears, her cheeks flushed from crying or panic or both.

before you stands a man, impeccably dressed in a black suit, the revolver in his gloved hand catches the yellowish light, glinting ominously. his expression is unnervingly calm—almost amused—as though this is all some kind of game.

which, of course, it is.

“five bullets,” he announces jovially, spinning the cylinder with dramatic flair. the click of the mechanism echoes in the stillness, impossibly deafening. “one empty chamber. one of you walks out. the rules are simple, no?”

you don’t move, can’t even think about moving. your focus is glued to the gun as it catches the weak overhead light. it looks heavy, like it should clatter to the floor, but he handles it effortlessly, as if it’s an extension of himself.

from the corner of your eye, you can see your unnamed companion shaking beside you. the woman lets out a small, strangled whimper. it makes his lips curl upward.

“your odds are… slim, let’s say. but i have a proposal,” with an exaggerated gesture, he holds the revolver up, his index finger poised against the chamber. “i’ll make the odds more… favourable. i’ll remove four bullets.”

both of you freeze, the words taking a moment to sink in.

“excellent.” he slides open the cylinder, plucks out four bullets, and drops them onto the floor with a metallic clatter. he snaps the revolver shut and steps closer to you.

“that leaves just one bullet,” a faint smile. “but there’s a condition. before each turn, you’ll need to show me your gratitude.”

his hand reaches out, tilting your chin upward with a gloved finger. his other hand, the other hand—still gripping the revolver—drifts downward, stopping near his belt. the implication is obscene. he tugged down his fly and stuck his thumb under the waistline of his trousers, pushing down. his cock sprang up and hit his stomach, a bead of precum glistening from the tip.

your stomach twists in revulsion as you lower your face to his crotch. swallowing back the sob welling up from your chest, you lower your lips to him.

cheeks hollowed, pausing occasionally to rove your tongue across the veiny underside before finally taking all of him, suppressing the urge to gag when his tip hit the back of your throat.

tears of pure terror and humiliation sting your vision as you pull back—count that as a blessing, being unable to see that infuriatingly calm smirk of his.

“very good,”

the barrel of the gun presses against your temple, and your body goes rigid, preparing for the inevitable.

click.

beside you, she’s sobbing, shaking her head frantically.

“no… nononono please no…”

the man in the suit sighs good-naturedly before crouching slightly so his face is level with hers. “if you forfeit, you lose the game.” each word carefully enunciated, like he’s explaining to a child. her breath stutters, but after a moment, she leans forward. her lips tremble as she parts them, shaking so violently you think she might collapse. you squeeze your eyes shut, but it doesn’t block out the sounds—her muffled gags, the choked whimpers that make bile crawl up your throat.

then comes the click. hollow. empty

she screams anyway, collapsing forward as if the relief itself has knocked her over. her body convulses, the sobs dissolving into gasping, hysterical laughter.

you should feel something for her relief—for her survival. but instead, disappointment lodges itself deep in your chest, bitter and shameful. it’s not fair, you think, even as guilt claws at you for daring to feel that way.

his gaze locks onto you once more.

“your turn.”

you shut your eyes tighter, willing yourself to be anywhere but here. your movements are robotic as you dip your head, taking him all into your mouth again. your trembling fingers comes to wrap around the base of his shaft to ensure that every inch of him was subjected to the attention you were providing, you established a steady rhythm, jerking him off with both your mouth and hand, a dull ache spreading along your jaw muscles.

as he pulls away, the barrel of the gun finds your temple again.

click.

you gasp, but the sound is drowned by her renewed sobs. the cycle begins again.

your skin feels clammy, your body on edge with every click that isn’t followed by the sound of a bullet.

the fifth round arrives, and it’s your turn again.

the cold barrel presses against your temple, and every muscle in your body locks up. your mind betrays you, conjuring grisly visions of what could come next—neurons obliterated, bone fragments exploding outward, blood vessels snapping like threads.

click.

the silence rings in your ears as glorious relief crashes over you, wild and dizzying. you made it. for the first time in what feels like hours, you think you can breathe again.

but then something changes. the relief curdles into dread. your heart sinks as the realisation strikes: you survived. you.

which means she won’t.

your gaze flickers to her, trembling beside you. she’s staring up at him, her face pale and devoid of hope, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. it’s then you notice it—a warmth seeping against your knee. your stomach churns as you realise she’s wet herself.

the acrid smell hits you and shame burns through you, even though it’s not yours to feel. her body is betraying her completely, and she doesn’t even seem to care. she’s too far gone, staring blankly as the revolver shifts from you to her, the barrel pressing against her temple.

the silence stretches unbearably long, but the gunshot is deafening.

her body crumples to the floor with a sickening thud. the sound is dull, but the sight is anything but. blood pools beneath her head, a dark, glistening red spreading across the concrete. clumps of hair and flecks of brain matter cling to the wall behind.

your face feels warm and wet. you don’t even blink as the realisation hits: it’s her. her blood, her flesh, clinging to your skin.

the man in the suit lowers the gun, his face lit up with a cheerful smile, as if this is all just a game—one he’s delighted to host. splatters of red streak his cheek and the edge of his collar, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he calmly buckles up his trousers.

“congratulations,” he says warmly, offering praise. he holsters the revolver with a flourish.

“you’ve won.”

the words don’t register. you’re still staring at her lifeless body, at the growing pool of crimson that seems to expand endlessly.

tears fall freely as he crouches behind you, the sweet coppery tang of blood, gunpowder and piss filling your senses. the ropes binding your wrists suddenly loosen, falling away with a soft rustle, but your hands remain limp at your sides. he stands up, towering over you, straightening his jacket.

“stand up,” his tone firm but not unkind.

your legs feel like lead, heavy and unresponsive, but somehow, you manage to rise. your knees threaten to buckle, and the world tilts precariously as you sway on unsteady feet. the man watches you with a faint smile, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“you’re free to go,”

you stumble toward the door, each step shaky, your body moving on autopilot while your mind lags behind, stuck in the room where everything has just fallen apart. the smell of blood and piss still clings to you, saturating the air, your skin, your soul.

as your hand grazes the exit, you pause, instinct pulling you to glance back.

but the room is empty.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[tawnysoup]

I ADORE your art and how well you match the ISAT artstyle. I've been being alot of studies to try replicate the style and draw characters 3d but stylised. Are there any tutorials that have helped you, studies you do, or things you keep in mind whilst drawing to make the characters look so 3d?

Oooaaahh thank you!!! This is a really good question. I say that because I feel like I "2D cheat" ISAT art a lot. It's very comfy to draw bc my normal art is like that too, with angles that shouldn't be able to exist but look right bc it's 2D so your brain forgives it. Design of the art > accuracy of the anatomy, y'kno?

The hair kind of gives it away in most cases. It's meant to be such a specific shape, it kind of stops looking like the character if it gets too 3D? But drawing it more 3D has huge utility too, especially for animation n stuff. It's just something I've noticed about the style! It's very designed for 2D. It's very "the shape of the lines" > "the shape of the 3D object"

It's helpful to remember that ISAT characters are all made up of really simple shapes. Like Siffrin's head is just a ball from nearly any angle but the side. Their body is a cylinder but one end is wider than the other. Odile's face is a ball but the bottom is long, like an oval. Isa's is a ball but his chin is square, it has soft corners. Even Bonnie's face is a ball you just add a cheek bump. Etc etc.

^Notice how i can't simplify the hat down into a consistent 3D shape bc otherwise it just. kind of. doesn't look like Siffrin's hat LOL

If you have the simple 3D shapes down then the rest of it is all 2D cheating and focussing on details! Having character refs nearby at all times especially when ur tryna figure out how to draw the character is KEY so you can keep looking at it and comparing. Try to pay attention to the little quirks of the art style that differ from yours and try to mimic them. But don't be afraid to let your style infect it a bit if it helps you to create something more dynamic looking.

It helps that i've been drawing for ages. I know 'practice' is the age old advice but here's my spin on it: just draw, keep drawing what u want no matter if it looks bad or if some professional artist tells you you're doing it wrong. So long as you keep drawing you are learning. Indulge and draw what you want so you get to keep all the motivation and keep going.

oh and PUSH YOUR POSES/EXPRESSIONS!!! By this I mean, draw it once, and then lower the opacity and draw it again on top but pushing everything a little bit further. If a pose feels stiff this tends to fix it.

uhmmm i rambled on for ages but i hoped it helped u Tea (or anyone else reading)! thank u for the excuse to draw a bunch of funny isat doodlies :D keep going you have GOT THIS!!! THERE IS NO WRONG WAY TO MAKE OR ENJOY ART! YAY

[winterandwords]

✍🏼 Word find tag (spiral, coast, climb, candle)

Thanks to @sunset-a-story for the tag!

📝 Search for the given words in your story. If your story doesn't have a word, you can use a variation on it or a word with a similar meaning.

I'm using Spin Cylinder for this and thesaurusing my way through it...

SPIRAL TWIST (Noah's POV)

A glance down at the freshly torn skin on your back fires a chemical twist through my tendons.

COAST (Brett's POV)

You’re never desperately hanging on to the back of a rollercoaster of tasks, half drunk on the speed of your thoughts and half building walls around your mind to repel distractions.

CLIMB (Noah's POV)

I climb onto the wooden handrail to sit next to you and we both stare out to sea, where the horizon lies beyond a heavy curtain of night.

CANDLE LIGHT (Brett's POV)

I silently thank the practically-minded earlier version of myself for rolling joints in preparation for precisely this moment and light the first one.

Tagging @space-writes, @tabswrites, @talesfromaurea and @talesofsorrowandofruin if you'd like to do it, with an open tag for anyone else who wants to join in.

The words to search your story for are table, chair, door, and window 💙

Reblogs, replies etc on my tag posts are always welcome, but if you're doing this tag yourself, please make your own post instead of using mine to start a reblog chain.

[frostgears]

this has already happened

"it's okay," the combat doll tells you as she heaves the slab of concrete across the room, freeing you from the rubble. "this has already happened."

you scream, but you can still stand. your leg is scraped but not broken. and you'll take any out you can get.

"this too," the doll adds later, adjusting a knob under one of her chest panels to match the firing rate of an enemy autocannon. "there's a way through. Miss sees the path. she sends a cylinder back in time. i play it back," she thumps her chest. "we tie the knot."

she cartwheels down the trench, and every bullet misses. there's a scream, and chunks of smoking metal pepper the wall across from where you wait down a side trench. then the doll calls: "clear! come on!"

the combat doll blocks an attack you don't even see, sparks sputtering off her thermal blade, setting fire to the dry grass. "not a chance," she shouts to her opponent. "i know what you're going to do!"

attack, riposte, parry, counter, crunch, and it's over.

for both of them.

"it's okay," the combat doll tells you. you can see through a rent into her main compartment, where the grooved cylinder from the future is still spinning, even as her hydraulic fluids leak into the dirt. "this has already happened…"

when she stops moving, you don't know what to do. you can barely lift her thermal blade, which is already cooling anyway, and when a figure steps up behind you, you figure this is really it, this time.

only when it asks your name do you recognize the colors of your own side, pinned to the brim of a pointed broad-brimmed hat.

you croak a reply, dumbfounded.

"good. i was told you'd be here. i sent one of mine in after you. i hope she was of some use."

"she's…" you point.

"oh? she made it this far, only to fall at the finish. a pity."

"she said… she said you'd seen this. from the future. sent a cylinder back. what happened? did we change the timeline?"

"oh, no. that's quite impossible," the figure says. "time travel, that is. as far as i know. but artificial deja vu is easy enough. they're so much braver and more confident when they think they know they're going to make it, aren't they?"

"then what's on the cylinder? what was she listening to when she rescued me?"

"you want to know?"

"yes!"

the figure kneels, opens the battered doll's chest, extracts the cylinder with long, deft fingers. it slots it into a device at its belt.

a chorus of voices issues forth.

"it's okay."

"all this has already happened."

"you're doing so well."

"Miss is watching."

"do what Miss would want you to do."

"all this has already happened."

"it's okay."

"it's okay."

"it's okay." □

[winterandwords]

Thanks for the ask! I love this question 💜

Answering for Spin Cylinder...

This is the image. I couldn't believe it when I found it because it's PERFECT. The whole vibe. All I did was crop it a little and edit the colours slightly. So thanks, Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash, for providing amazing royalty-free (and money-free!) stock. Honestly, people are so generous and awesome for doing this.

I'm not sure I can pick just one scent. If I absolutely had to, it would be sea air, with cedar and sandalwood aftershave as a close runner-up.

OK I definitely can't pick one taste because I can't choose between coffee and vodka.

I'm going to combine texture and sensation into a leather-gloved hand gripping your throat, not to kill you, but...deliciously close.

Happy STS!

For today, I thought I'd send a mass question via tags lol. So, mutuals, here ya go:

How would you describe your WIP's aesthetics with one image, one scent, one sound, one taste, and one sensation/texture?

@sam-glade, @elshells, @writernopal, @contes-de-rheio, @silvertalonwritblr, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @winterandwords, @burntcoffeewhump, @words-after-midnight, @conkers-theficwriter, @chromehoplite and anyone who sees this and wants to do it!